Sadly my master look’d round—he was riding—
on the boy’s right, with a line of his own.
“Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket,
while from his wrist the sword swung by a chain,
swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket,
kiss’t it (I think) and replaced it again.
“Burst, while his fingers reclined on the haft,
jarring concussion and earth-shaking din,
Horse counter’d horse, and I reel’d, but he laugh’t,
down went his man, cloven clean to the chin!”